


Spirit Of Bipartisanship

by ballpoint



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To 1shara, scandal fandom. Her prompt : My ask? Fitz and Liv. The first night together leading to the morning after. 1shara</p><p>There's one thing the Presidents of both political parties have in common - and that's philandering. Fitz knows how lowering it is. What he and Olivia Pope have is different, but he’s sure that’s something all Presidents say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirit Of Bipartisanship

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in Season 1x06, around the time of The Trail.

He couldn’t offer her anything. 

The thought reverbed through his brain as Fitz Grant stared out the window of his campaign bus. Not that there was much of a view on fast moving highways: just miles of straight grey paths as straight as rulers, before their offshoots curved into the spiral of ram’s horns, depending on the routes you took. The odd street light breaking through the inky blackness of the night. The cluster of lights in towns and cities over yonder. Highway signs advising routes to be taken in order to get to their destination of the moment. The dazzle of lights at night fading into into the pearl grey skies of the dawn as they rolled forward to the next stop, the next stump, and one step closer to Super Tuesday. 

Olivia sat across their shared breakfast table on the campaign bus. Despite the wretched, too early hour of the morning, she was awake, and ever present. Her hair, save her bangs, gathered up and off her face and shoulders into a low lying ponytail at her nape. Like the rest of the campaign staff, she wore the “Grant for President” T-shirt, but paired with a smart suit jacket of houndstooth, and snug dark trousers. Her face scrubbed of all make-up save a slick of gloss. Her skin reminded him of burnt sienna, the reddish brown of the Crayola crayons his children used to colour their drawings of redwood trees. He’d harboured thoughts - thoughts a married man, a man in his position shouldn't harbour - about her skin’s softness, how it glowed against the white of her T-shirt. 

His fingers tightened around the stem of his fork, as Olivia titled her head upwards at the young reporter who passed by their table, dropping her off a kid’s size box of grape juice. 

“James,” she gave him a sweet, lopsided unguarded smile as she reached for the container. “Thank you.”

“No,” the reporter smiled, his eyes a green twinkle behind the dark frames of his glasses. “Thank _you_. Owe you one.”

Olivia held up her juice box as if were a flute of champagne, and she were leading a toast. Her fingers were long and slender, tipped with polish as pale as the misty notes of the sky outside. Her eyes big and dark, framed by thick lashes, haunted his every moment. The open amusement as she exchanged greetings with James made her beautiful. 

“Magic,” Cy crooned at their shared breakfast table on the campaign bus paging through the broadsheets the interns delivered that morning. _The Times, WaPo, Chicago Tribune, Wall Street Journal_ , and the _New York Post_. Even though Cy liked technology well enough, with various smart phones and laptops, he preferred the ‘legitimacy’ of print and ink. Fitz left him to it, preferring to catch up on the news from his smartphone. “Liv,” Cy beamed at her. “You’ve delivered magic.”

“Oh, I straightened out a few kinks here and there,” Olivia laughed, piercing the box of juice with its accompanying straw before she puckered her lips into a bow and pulled daintily at her juice. 

“False modesty does no one any favours, Liv. If you’re doing that, I haven’t taught you well enough. Don’t do that.” Cy beetled his brows at her, causing Olivia to laugh even more, as she reached across the table and gently swatted at Cy’s forearm. Despite Fitz’s feelings and desires and principles wrenched into the painful proportions of a Gordian knot whenever he looked at her; he found himself relaxing and enjoying their banter. Cyrus and Olivia genuinely _got_ each other, which made everything easier. They also had a laser beam’s focus when it came to strategy and viewpoint; but not so insular that they lost sight of the big picture. Fitz knew from reading up on various histories of Presidential campaigns that went wrong that he had lucked out on both Olivia Pope and Cyrus Beene as campaign hands. 

“Governor Grant didn’t have to take my advice, nor did you. Your compliance is noted and appreciated.”

“Compliance, eh?” Cy shot her a sly look as he folded _USA Today_ and passed it to Olivia, before reaching for _The New York Post_. 

“Better?”

“Much,” Cy absently brushed at his jaw with his thumb, before paging through the next newspaper. 

“Your help has been invaluable, Ms Pope,” Fitz said, just for the simple reason that he wanted Olivia to look in his direction, so he could greedily file another one of her expressions to memory. The slow fade of her smile and her steady stare made him pause. She raised her hand, her knuckles a soft brush against her jaw, making him want to trace the delicate line of her jaw with the tips of his fingers, his- 

“You got a mention in the New York Post!” Cy laughed out of rare delight as he wagged his finger at Fitz. “Murdock likes you, and where he goes-” Cy threw up his hands, momentarily a loss for words, because he was so overwhelmed. 

“The votes follow,” Fitz said, his eyes never leaving Olivia’s face. 

“Correct,” Cy reached for his Blackberry on the table, and immediately started pounding out missives on the keys. 

“Shall we reach out to Fox news?” Olivia’s eyes still had not left his.

“Not yet, Liv,” Cy shook his head. “Let them court us. Fitz’s policies are a bit far left of centre for them right now-”

Olivia gave a soft scoff of laughter, as she rested her chin on her raised fist, finally breaking her gaze from Fitz to look at Cy, and it felt as a cloud had crept across the sun. “Never mind that at best, his stuff is centrist. According to Silver-”

“Who is _not_ Rove or Morris sanctified, and they’re with the other guys, remember? We hold off until Super Tuesday, allow the buzz to build. Once we clear that hurdle, they’ll be coming to us, and we can play ball then.”

“I’ll keep the lines of communication open. Court MSNBC too, just to keep things interesting.” 

“Like I said,” Cy grinned at Fitz, face lit with fierce pride and not a little bit of awe. “She’s magic.”

***

He couldn’t offer her anything.

Not unless you counted her name as being a footnote in the history books; a titillating piece of trivia on US Presidents (if he were to become President) to be asked about; “I’ll take Philandering Presidents for five hundred, Alex”. Washington and Sally Fairfax, Wilson and Peck; Eisenhower and Kay Summersby. FDR and Clinton - in the multitudes. The one true area of bipartisanship- mistresses on both sides. 

“This is me.” Olivia said softly, as they drew towards her door. Cy had already disappeared behind a door that clicked shut behind him, and it was just them, alone in the passage. The other doors closed to the world, the carpet thick enough for their steps to be muffled underfoot. 

“I’m down there,” he said after a moment, the words bold despite their simplicity. A statement, an invitation; a warning. 

He admired the nape of her neck, and the glimpse of her profile. The sweep of lashes, and curve of her lips. Fitz looked at Olivia’s back and shoulders as she faced the hotel door. The soft slinky lines of her cream shirt skimming her frame. Her weekender at her side, the credit card sized card to her hotel room in hand. The air between them swirled, zinging and electric and uncertain as Olivia stilled, resting her palm against her hotel door. 

Up to this moment, their courting had been coy. A study in the _abstract_ , if he wanted to put a politician’s spin on it. A- a flirtation with the _almost_. The expression of amusement and warmth from Olivia’s lowered lashes as she dragged his tie from his neck, and replaced it with one worn by an intern. 

The stolen minute in the passage, as they stared at each other, the pupils in her eyes so blown, they were almost black. With each breath, they drew closer to each other; unable and unwilling to break their mutual force of attraction, to be yanked into the present of respectability by the yank of a door, and his wife’s voice. 

A moment of sorrow on her part for him on the bus. Her presence steady, and smooth. Their exchange jittery, as he laid his case out for her, and said what had been weighing on his heart for too long. 

_“What kind of a coward was I to marry her, and not wait for you to show up?”_. His feelings for her battered everything at him- his self governing principles, his wants- and simultaneously made him burn. From the first time she slipped out of the shambles of his campaign post Iowa, and blew him away with her insights about the operation Cy and himself were running. With a lot of canniness and hard work on her part, she’d delivered unto him the promise of a campaign, and for the first time in a long time- the welcome _slap_ and ache of living. All he could offer her, if they took the abstract into the now, would be the status of a trivia question. He swallowed, half smiled, and shook his head. They had gone too far. 

He took a step back. 

“Just go into your room and close the door, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

She had to walk away, because he couldn't. 

“Go in your room.” 

A pang of immediate regret at his own words, to be replaced by a jolt of awareness as Olivia turned on her heel, dragged her suitcase behind her towards the end of the hall.

To his room.

***

The door barely clicked into place before they fell on each other, ravenous. He tasted as much of her as he could in the first seconds. The salt of her skin, as his tongue traced the curve of her jaw. The flutter of her eyelids, the perfume of her hair.

Her fingers tugged at his jacket, his shirt. His hair. Her thighs around his waist as he backed her onto the wet bar. Her fingers twisting into the lapels of the jacket as she yanked him into her space. In the distance, over the pound of his heart, and her shocked stutter of breath as he grabbed at her ass and haunches, grinding his hardness against her centre, something shattered into a tinkle of glass. 

Olivia Pope, all cool and composed on the trail now squirming and needy in his arms. Her mouth open as she licked her way into his, sucking on his tongue. He nipped at her lower lip, captured her face between his palms, relishing the texture of her skin, tasting her. As soft as in his fantasies, but ah, so much _better_. He traced at her lips with his tongue, the palms of his hands skimming the curves and planes of her body committing them to memory. Fitz ’d always been a quick study. 

Her broken plea, her fingers working at his shirt dragged him into the moment. Catching her wrists and bracketing them with his hands, he wrenched his mouth away from hers, their eyes level. In the softly lit hotel room, he looked at her face. Her eyes huge and dark, her lips, kiss swollen and glossy, and slightly parted. 

No words, just the sound of their shared breathing, and their chests rising and falling with exertion. 

She was here, with him. He waited beats, his hands still manacling her wrists, with enough give for her to break the grasp of his fingers. Olivia didn’t struggle, nor squirm. She just stilled. Not that sort of stillness that came with split second deliberation before flight, but one that had acceptance curling around its acquiescence. Something holy. His hands dropped from her wrists, and settled on her thighs, the heat radiating beneath his palms. 

“Take off your clothes.” 

Olivia raised her hands to hover over the top button of her blouse, now a deep pink in this light. After a moment, a minute (a lifetime), she bared her body to his gaze. Her shirt falling away from the curve of her shoulders, down her arms, into a silken puddle on carpet. Her skin burnished with the mellow lights of the working lap by the bedside table, her breasts and privates clad in the cream froth of lace. Her eyes still on his, she stepped out of the puddle of her trousers. 

Still half dressed, but eyes and body only for her, Fitz closed the distance between them. As soon as he touched her, as if a spell had been broken, Olivia launched herself at him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him again. Fitz held her form against him, fingers splayed against her bottom. Every step he took, punctuated by kisses. Short, off centre ones as their lips missed each other, with huffs of laughter in between, before he pressed his palm against her cheek, angled her face to his. That did the trick, their tongues sliding against each other, his other hand holding her firmly in place, before he lurched towards the bed, and lowered her on the sheets. 

Olivia adjusted her limbs, her legs together at the knees, falling to one side, did a pose that sent all blood to his body rushing south. Her hair an inky spill against the white of the sheets, an offer to him. Fitz took his time, inching along her body, long strokes as he traced the muscles of her thighs, the curve and indent of her waist. Olivia lifted her arms, the gesture wordless and graceful as she beckoned him near. He covered her body with his, shucking his shirt and trousers along the way. 

This time, with his forehead pressed against hers, their noses rubbed together, he traced the sweet curve of her jaw with bent fingers. No words, as she palmed his face, kissed him, and smiled. There were no words for what they were, what this was. He rained kisses down the column of her throat, as he shifted to his knees, lifting her to him; Olivia as soft and fragrant as wax in his arms as she straddled him. His lips at the pulse between jaw and ear. Her panty clad centre at the knot of his groin, every undulation and shift of her body against his, sweet torture. Desire made his fingers clumsy and stupid as he worked at the front of her bra strap, only for Olivia to cover her hand with his, and with quiet amusement, she reached behind, and unhooked it. 

Fitz laughed, soft and low, face burning from the embarrassment of it. She made him _feel_ again: all sun bright, awkward new and _right_. With Olivia, everything - even something as important as this - she made it easy. 

All he could offer her was pleasure; feeling her boneless in his arms as he dipped his head to her chest and breathed on her breast, her nipples hard and tight with arousal. He pushed her back against the bed again, and set to knowing her. His hands and mouth mapping and marking what made her gasp, and mouth his name. The tug at his hair when he lapped at her nipples, one first and the other. Her hands falling away from his shoulders as he moved down her body, open mouthed kisses along the underside of her breasts, the indentation of her navel. 

Olivia, small and perfectly formed. Her body made for his to please; her arousal sharpening the air as he nosed the inner curve of her thigh, her spine curved away from the mattress as he mouthed her through her panties, his world shrunk and expanded to charting her reactions. The shudder and rock and roll of her hips, before she shattered under his ministrations with combined fingers and tongue. 

"Olivia," he breathed, hooking his fingers at the waistline of her panties.

Movements languid, she reached towards him, opened her mouth and body to his. Fitz followed, sank into her, his world bathed in her sighs, held by the sure grip of her thighs. By touch, he traced along her arm, as he moved within her. He found her hand, linked their fingers together, while still being locked into her eyes and gave himself over to everything.

***

He couldn’t offer her anything.

The thought came again as Fitz bowed his head for grace at the breakfast prayer service. Not even the luxury of a lie in; when he came to, heart beating, all of his being filled with the truth of the night before. The taste of her on his tongue, the fragrance of her lingering in the air. His rakish grin vanished at the empty space beside him, the quiet of the room telling the story. No shower, no room service, her suitcases gone. 

Post prayer and breakfast, Fitz scanned the crowds for Olivia, as well as being aware that people came to see himself, Sally Langston and the other Republican candidates in the flesh. They were all dressed in their Sunday best, although today was a Saturday. Fitz shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, kissed babies. Babies were the easy part, they were a joy, from curious and quiet cooing, to those who screamed and squirmed, being a source of embarrassment to their grandparents and guardians. Fitz didn’t mind, because keeping on message with babies was- like falling off a log. They were different, and delightful. Their guardians on the other hand...These people were the party faithful, predominantly white, and older. Some had their grandchildren in tow, and everyone had a pin or a badge declaring which candidate they were supporting. Fitz found himself gladdened at the odd person wearing a t-shirt and cap with his logo, “We The People.” 

“More than the last stop,” Cyrus agreed when he caught Fitz’s eye. “We’re gaining. There’s been an uptick of campaign contributions. I need you to turn on that charm on like a faucet today.” They were in the town community centre, it had been formerly a church, with its high ceilings, exposed brick face and glass windows giving their surroundings a rustic charm. A long, wooden table set, giving the appearance of _The Last Supper_. “Never mind the others,” Cyrus muttered under his breath. “Langston is the one to beat. Her projections are insane. I just looked at her poll numbers-” he ran a hand through his hair. “Insane.”

“Really?” Fitz raised an eyebrow at Cyrus, who looked distinctly uncomfortable at their surroundings. 

“The ‘F’ factor.” A voice low, smooth and very much welcome to Fitz’s ears made him smile. Still in her uniform of jacket, smart trousers tucked into a pair of knee high boots, with the stars of the Grant campaign around her neck. With a lanyard pinned to her jacket, she looked more like a harried intern than one of the architects of their campaign. Fitz couldn’t help it, smiling as Olivia appeared beside Cy, as conjured by a much wanted wish. 

“Female, traditional and friend of the Tea Party. Her message has been excellent, melding the non traditional role of the female pushing for President and yet toeing the line with her religion and conservative values.”

“Now is not the time to admire Billy Chambers’ strategy when our candidate is on the back foot, Liv.”

“There’s always time to admire great strategy, Cy.” Olivia said with a sharp nod. “You shouldn’t be here. Do you want to meet up with us outside? I know how - _uncomfortable_ you can be at these things.”

Cyrus gave Olivia a thin, mocking smile. “I think its more for your people than mine.”

Fitz raised his eyebrows at Cyrus’ bald remark, but Olivia only leaned forward and kissed Cyrus on his cheek. Or, Fitz walked back the thought as Cyrus grunted at Olivia and waved his hand, before walking off. 

“ ‘Your people’?” Fitz finally got the courage to ask, ready to offer profuse apologies and a stern talk if necessary. Olivia only smiled as she looked at the teeming crowds. “Not what you think, Governor Grant. It wasn’t racial, but hetreosexual.” 

“Ah.” 

“Yeah. Ah.” Olivia’s smile turned thoughtful, and made her eyes sober. “And yet, he stays.”

“Cy is a riddle wrapped in an enigma, Livvie. Try not to think about it.” the endearment just popped out, and Olivia’s eyes widened. 

“Governor, this is not the place, and now is not the time.” Olivia shook her head. Before Fitz could respond, Olivia gestured at the sea of reporters surging towards them, with cameras and hot mikes in tow. Fitz put on his game face, smiled for the cameras and steeled himself to answer questions. Olivia disappeared as quickly as she appeared.

***

The prayer circle now finished, and Fitz found himself back on the bus, around the same table they’d been the day before. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he _knew_ that last night had happened, he’d have thought it a dream. Olivia treated him with the same deference to his position like she always had, and their looks still heated. He stared out the window again. This time, they were on route to Florida, with Cyrus huffing and grumbling all the way.

“That damned state,” Cyrus hissed, spearing his spring roll with the tines of his fork. “If their electoral college votes weren't so important, I’d make it secede into nothingness. Their governor is useless and a liability to the long term interests of the party.”

“Push for the popular vote then.” Olivia took a swing from her water bottle, and Cyrus rolled his eyes and shook his head. 

“Funny, Liv. You know how much the other side would _love_ that. Excuse me, I’m going to have to strike some terror into a few interns.”

At this, Cyrus bade his leave. He watched Olivia watch Cyrus go, the setting sun throwing her face into shadow, making her even more beautiful, and he sighed at himself. If he was going to go down for the third time, he might as well admit the truth. 

“I missed you this morning,” he itched to touch her, but they were still on the bus. 

“Last night,” Olivia opened her mouth, and turned to look out the window. “It was-”

“No,” Fitz shook his head, heading her off at the pass before she could even finish the sentence. “It wasn’t.”

“Governor Grant,” Olivia turned to him, her eyes moist, and features stricken. “Fitz-” she repeated, “we shouldn't have. It was wrong. I don’t _do_ that.”

“And you think-” he glanced around the bus to see if anyone was in earshot, but they were in the clear. “I do? That I just - Livvie.”

“I think,” Olivia said, her voice shook at the edges. “I think we’re going to get you elected, and we’ll leave it at that.” 

“ _Livvie_.”

“I’m sorry,” Olivia pushed herself to her full height of five four, and the sadness that rippled across her features tugged at his heart. “I’m so sorry, we made a mistake. Excuse me,” her lower lip trembled with her emotion. “I have to find Cy.”

“ _Olivia_. ”

“Excuse me.” This time, the tone was final, before she stumbled from the table in the direction of Cyrus. 

Fitz turned his head and looked outside, the setting sun making his eyes burn and tear.


End file.
